


The Daily Grind

by paperskythewry



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, College AU, Collegestuck, Hispanic Karkat, Human AU, Humanstuck, M/M, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-02-12 20:19:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12967623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperskythewry/pseuds/paperskythewry
Summary: A gratuitous coffee shop au, where the same thing that happens in every coffee shop au happens again, but this time, I'm writing it.





	1. Chapter 1

   

**I**

     “Look, all I’m sayin’ is I can’t understand why it’s takin’ you twenty fuckin’ minutes to make a couple a drinks. You specialise in coffee. That is literally all you are bein’ asked to do.”

 

     You blink in the direction of the guy that just broke the record for most pompous asshole any customer service employee has ever had to deal with, tugging a plastic smile onto your face and fighting to keep your temptation to open the register and cram this guys head in in check.

 

     “Again, I’m so sorry about the wait sir.” You lie. You are not sorry. It is a pleasure to ruin this sad hipsters afternoon. “We’re understaffed today, and we’ve got a lot of other customers to attend to.”

 

     Not to mention, he’d ordered a whole carrier full of drinks, and you only have two blenders. Or, actually, you have one blender, since ol’ faithful is on the fritz after the ditzy freshman you work with forgot to put the fucking lid on this morning, and somehow managed to glue the buttons stuck with only a splattered strawberry banana smoothie.

 

     “Please.” He scoffs. “Look, I’m not here to tell you how to do your job, but surely three people can handle a few extra orders, if you really put your heads together. I’m not fuckin’ thick. I’m a payin’ customer an’ I know I should be able to come in at two o’clock in the afternoon an’ buy some coffees without it bein’ a huge fuss.”

 

You grit your teeth. Maybe this would be a little less unbearable if this particular idiot didn’t have such a stupid way of talking. Every word is fucking dripping with egocentrism.

 

     “Sir, I apologize, but there’s nothing I can do. If you would _kindly_ be patient for just a little longer, and we’ll have those drinks right out to you.”

 

     He huffs dramatically. “Well, see, the thing is, I’ve already _been_ patient. _Some_ of us are on a schedule. We can’t spend all day dickin’ around behind a counter an’ then makin’ excuses about how it’s _too hard_ when our work ain’t done. Some of us have _real_ jobs.”

 

     His little performance has gotten so fucking theatrical at this point that you’re sure, even through the clattering of plates and cups and the constant hum of chatter filling the cafe, that everyone can hear you now. You don’t even have to bother looking, or you don’t have time to, because before you can stop it, a familiar burn is lighting your chest on fire and rage bubbles up through your fucking esophagus and out into the world and you’re screaming at the top of your lungs.

 

     “Oh? And what job would that be, douchefuck? Please, enlighten me. Because if some cushy job uptown would pay a fuckjamming inbecile like you, they must accept applications from just about anyone. So what _is_ this totally legitimate, “real job” that’s paying your tuition? Do they pay people to wear hideous fucking scarves all day and demand services that they simultaneously degrade, or is that just a hobby of yours? And, if so, do you get paid vacation for the time you take off waltzing into busy workplaces and demanding first class service because somehow I’m supposed to know that you’re the fucking Queen of England in disguise just on that godawful accent alone? Or wait, maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe you don’t have a job at all. Maybe you’re just a bucket of festering discharge whose daddy has paid for every single one of his stupid, privileged whims for his entire life, and now you’re all alone in the real world, and you’re coming to realize that sometimes, you can’t get things instantaneously just because you fucking want them. Am I right? Because that’s what it looks like to me.”

 

     At some point, you took your messy apron off, and you feel yourself throw it onto the counter as punctuation before stomping into the back room, leaving the already shitty situation that you’ve just further aggravated to your helpless coworkers. You decide to head inside the walk in supply closet and make a futile attempt at your breathing exercises, or what you remember of them.

 

     You kind of thought after endless therapy sessions in your freshman year of college that you’d reined in your anger issues a little bit. You’d still had the occasional outburst after you left therapy, and of course you’d retained your usual, day to day pissyness. But you learned to express your true intentions more clearly, even if you did it in the same ornery, sarcastic way you always had.

 

     You think bottling up your frustrations at work all the time was putting you on edge.

 

     Before you know it, twenty minutes pass, or so you find out when your manager bursts into the back room and yells “KARKAT.” You click open your phone to check the time and then scramble to your feet and out of the supply closet.

 

     “Yes, sir?”

 

     “In my office.” He orders, jabbing a finger in that direction. You wordlessly follow.

 

     Every reference you have, which is to say, your entire cinematic library, tells you that the words “in my office” never bring any good fortune to the protagonist. If your life were one of your movies, this would be the part in the very beginning of the second act where the leading lady’s seemingly perfect life gets blown wide open and she gets fired from her job. And of course, it only gets worse from there. Everything and everyone seems to be trying to take a shit on her. Until a particularly awful day, where she’s overdue on her rent and her heel is fucking broken, and jesus christ, it’s fucking raining, that she walks right into the arms of the man of her dreams, he sweeps her off her feet, and slowly, she learns to be happy despite the imperfections in her life. Except that part doesn’t happen in your movie. You just lose your job, drop out of school, and die alone.

 

Which is why you don’t believe it when, moments later, as the door of the office clicks shut, you hear the words:

 

     “I’m not going to fire you.”

 

     You blink stupidly at your manager, Santino.

 

     “Huh?” You say, stupidly.

 

     “I’m not going to fire you because of this.” He sighs.

 

     You let out breath you didn’t know you were holding in.

 

     “You’re not?” You ask again. You wince at how much you sound like a guilty little kid being reprimanded by his parents.

 

     “No.” He responds again firmly. “Don’t get me wrong, you left a real mess out there. I mean, I had to _apologize_ on behalf of the store to _that_ guy, and he still wouldn’t leave unless I gave him a discount. I’m still disappointed with how you handled this, especially since we’ve already been through this song and dance two times before.” He gives you a meaningful look. He’s right. According to The Daily Grind store policy, this is your third strike. You should be out of here.

“But I won’t go as far as to fire you. You’re a good employee, Karkat. A hard worker. And I’d hate for you to be out of a job. You just need to take some responsibility.”

 

     “So what’re you saying?” You’re still so confused by the news that you won’t be ultimate frisbee’d into a financial crisis by your own incompetence today that you’re having trouble connecting the dots.

 

     He sighs gruffly once more. “What I’m saying is, I think it may be beneficial for you to refresh your knowledge of our employee expectations, and to practice your patience.”

 

     “With all due respect, Sir, he’s the one who lost his patience.” You say before you can stop yourself. Jesus christ, why do you keep pushing your fucking luck today?

 

     “Yes, but _you_ stooped to his level.” Santino asserts, and then pauses thoughtfully. “If I recall correctly, Karkat, you’re going to school to become a teacher?”

 

     “Yeah.” You reply. “But I don’t see what that has to do with this situation.” Can you shut up for once in your goddamn pitiful life?

 

     “In all professions, Mr. Vantas, being more of a people person goes a long way.” He explains, surprisingly calm, considering everything that has happened.

 

This is one of the many qualities you admire about Santino. Coincidentally also one of the many virtuous qualities that enables him to deal with your ungrateful ass.

 

     “So,” he continues. “I want you to work on your people skills by training our new employee.”

 

At this point, there really isn’t anything to say besides:

 

     “Okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

     

      **II**

     You still don’t know the name of The Daily Grind’s newest hire. The end of your conversation with your boss was so surreal, in that you didn’t get fucking sacked, that the rest of the exchange was sort of muffled against your racing inner monologue. In fact, you missed a _lot_ of crucial details about training the new employee that Santino probably told you. Like, for instance, when his first day was. Or, what time he was showing up. And since you don’t really see your boss on a consistent basis, you never got a chance to follow up about it.

 

     So you’re kind of caught off guard when you show up at seven to open the store on Saturday morning, and some dude is already sitting outside at the little patio table, looking down at his phone and probably freezing his ass off.  

 

     “Hey man, sorry, the cafe doesn’t open ‘till eight.” You explain, stifling a yawn.

 

     You kinda feel bad for him. He’s not wearing a coat--just a huge red hoodie, a beanie, and some fingerless gloves that can’t possibly be keeping him warm, since it’s fucking December and you live in Seattle.  You wonder how long he’s been out here, the dumbass. Can’t he read the sign?

 

     “Well, that would be a little weird, since that Santiago guy told me to be here at seven.” He tilts his head to look up at you, an unreadable expression on his face. For a moment, you completely forget that he’s talking to you.

 

     The first weird thing about him, besides the pointless gloves, is that he’s wearing sunglasses in the middle of winter. Maybe this would make sense if it were even remotely sunny out, but it’s not. Which means that the next most likely justification for this fucking idiotic behavior is that he’s either a flaming douchebag or....maybe blind?

 

He’s also the whitest person you’ve ever seen. Like, some fucking Aryan Race shit is happening here. Platinum blond hair, porcelain skin, everything is seamless. Except for the fact that his face is _covered_ in freckles.

 

     You only notice that you’re staring in bewilderment when he shrugs and stands up, turning on his heel.

 

     “Alright, whatever dude.” He mumbles.

 

     “Wait!” You quickly blurt out, pulling yourself back into reality. Nice job there, Vantas. Good call ogling your new trainee on his first day at work. He turns back to face you, hooking an eyebrow over the top of those weird ass shades. “Fuck, I mean. I didn’t realize you’re the new guy.”

 

     He strolls back over. “Oh.” Is all he says at first.

 

     You lead him around to the back door of the cafe, and as you’re jostling the keys in the doorknob, another muttered remark.

 

      “Yo, just a tip, I dunno if it’s the most solid tactic, just, as a business, to like, forget when you hire people.” He offers.

 

     You roll your eyes, pushing the door open and flicking on the lights inside the whole cafe on a little control panel as both of you step inside.

 

     “I didn’t forget that you were hired, I just..forgot when you were supposed to show up.”

 

     “Y’all give a warm welcome here at The Daily Grind, huh.” He deadpans again.

 

     You hang up your coat, grabbing two aprons from another hook opposite it and handing one to him, as you tie yours around your waist.

 

     “Alright, let’s get the pleasantries out of the way. My name is Karkat. I’m twenty years old. I’m a student at University of Washington. That is way more than you need to know about me.”

 

     “Aw, nice, man. I go to Cornish.” He weirdly extends his fist.

 

     So he’s an art student. The shades are definitely douchebag-y then.

 

     It takes you a moment to realize he’s sticking out his fist for you to bump. Yep. Douchebag. You wouldn’t bump that fist with a ten foot pole. You walk through the swinging doors out behind the counter, motioning for him to follow.

 

      You spend your hour of prep juggling two incredibly time consuming tasks: getting all your responsibilities done so that the cafe doesn’t look like a mess, and teaching Dave how to do incredibly simple bullshit that even a literal toddler could understand, but for some reason, he cannot.

 

     Okay, you get how he would need it explained a couple times how all the machines work. Judging by last Saturday’s smoothie incident, some of your _current_ employees don’t even know how to operate a blender. You can cut him a little slack for that one. Maybe he’s just trying to be thorough. And knowing when and how to brew new coffees and replace the old ones can seem a bit confusing at first, especially since you have innumerable store policies on just that subject alone in order to help maintain the quality of your product. Not to mention, he doesn’t seem to know much about the menu. That’s an understandable thing to have a lot of questions about, considering the fact that he’s supposed to be taking orders from that very same menu in less than an hour. But the weird thing about that is, according to him, he comes in here all the time. What is he fucking ordering, hot chocolate?

 

     You offhandedly ask him this while you’re showing him how to restock the supplies in the front with stuff from the cooler in the back, and the answer is a simple “Yes.”

But it’s his first day, and he can’t be expected to do everything perfectly. You know that.

 

     Still, even if you put all of that aside, there is one thing that you cannot wrap your head around.

 

     You don’t have even the faintest, most miniscule idea how a person can grow up to become a goddamn adult that pays goddamn rent, and not understand the basics of a cash register. It’s not like there are even that many options!

 

     Your menu is divided into simple categories on the register. Hot drinks, (that’s hot teas, hot coffees, and hot chocolate) Iced Drinks, (that’s iced tea, iced coffee, and these chilled fruit drinks) Blended Drinks, (that’s frappes and smoothies) and Snacks (all the food items you offer.) Everything is neatly laid out. You enter in the selections. You move to the checkout screen. You click cash or credit. You type in the amount. You print out a fucking receipt, give the customer their change, and then you’re on your merry fucking way. It’s not fucking difficult. And yet, somehow, because the universe hates you and will clearly stop at no end to make your life a living hell, you’re still working on this with him by the time the first few customers trickle in. It is testing the limits of what little sanity you have left.

 

     “Hey Karkat.” You’re in the middle of making a Sugarplum Fairy Frappe for..it looks like ‘Karen,’ (you can’t tell for sure, since his writing is like chicken scratch) when he calls you over again. You put the lid on the blender and turn it on before walking over.

 

     “Yeah?” You look up at the customer, which looks to be some professor stopping by to caffeinate before her first class, (you briefly mourn the poor soul who has to go to class on a Saturday morning) and then look back down at the register screen. “What’s the issue?”

 

     “Uh, she says she wants a ‘Peppermint Mocha,’ so would that be under ‘Iced Drinks’ or ‘Snacks?’” He asks.

 

     If you were an idiot (and also if you were a famous celebrity and if this was fucking 2007), you might peer around the room for hidden cameras, plonk down on your ass, and wait for Ashton Kutcher to emerge from the shadows to tell you that you have been ‘Punk’d.’ Instead, you just narrow your eyes at him in disbelief. If you had known what this was going to be like, you might’ve just let Santino fire you that day instead.

 

     You plaster a grin onto your face, something you’re getting quite good at doing.

 

     “Well, it’s actually neither. The Peppermint Mocha actually comes as either a hot drink or as a frappe. So you would ask the customer….?” You prompt, leaving an intentional blank for him to try to fill in, if he can even handle that on his own.

 

     “Oh!” He finally gets it, and looks up to address the professor, who has begun to look rather impatient, and drawls out: “Did you want that as a hot drink, or did you want that as a frappe?”

 

     “As a hot drink, please.” She manages.

 

     “Oh okay, so, then I would go to ‘Hot Drinks’ and I would go to ‘Peppermint Mocha.’” He stumbles through, but lands on his feet. “Thanks, Karkat.”

 

     “You did a great job.” You know you’re lying to his face, but positive reinforcement is a tried and true method. You just hope he doesn’t notice your scowl as you return to Karen’s frappe.

  


     The rest of the morning passes without incident, and soon the morning rolls into the afternoon. You’ve already heard the playlist cycle through twice, and thus have seen the new guy lip sync emphatically to “Hollaback Gurl” twice too many times, as he went about cleaning up your workspace or restocking the napkins, or whatever other mundane tasks you were having him do. The freshman girl that you usually work with showed up at noon, so you no longer had to entrust that guy with any actually important jobs. At one, you finally just send him on his lunch break, thinking he’ll fuck off for half an hour, and give you at least that brief time block of solitude. Instead, he plunks down at a booth by a window in the corner, drinking hot chocolate and eating one of your dry sandwiches as he bobs his head rhythmically to whatever is playing on his obnoxiously large headphones.

 

      You’re in the middle of clearing some tables when the chime of the doorbell catches your attention.

 

     Kanaya always managed to look put together, even in the freezing Seattle winters. Today, the combination of a pretty crimson hijab and a long, light brown peacoat are just a suggestion of the remnants of autumn, while white winter boots and fluffy mittens speckle her outfit with the calling cards of the approaching season. You will admit, you’d never really seen the appeal of fashion until you’d met her when you were both in the ninth grade. It had always seemed like just another superficial and ultimately pointless thing that the people around you partook in simply to fit in with everyone else. To you, there was no real passion in it. Kanaya showed you how magical and empowering choosing an outfit could be. Instead of being high-end, expensive, and exclusive, fashion was an extremely personal, individualistic thing that anyone could be a part of. To Kanaya, fashion truly was an art form, and she put all of her time and energy into mastering fashion design. You soon discovered that when Kanaya put her time and energy into something, it was not to be taken lightly. Those were always the things (and people) that she cared about most.

 

     “Hey, Kanaya.” You greet her. “Green tea and a blueberry scone?”

 

     “Good afternoon, Karkat. Actually, I think I’ll have chai today, if you have it. And the scone as well, please.” She pulls her wallet out from her purse, frowning slightly. “I feel bad for you, Karkat. It’s so gorgeous out today and you’re stuck inside working.”

 

     You start to ring her up, grumbling. “Well, if you’re gonna feel bad for me anyway, that’s definitely not the worst thing that has happened today.”

 

     “Oh no. Did your brother call again?” Her eyebrows are knotted with concern as you hand her back her change and get to work on her chai. She trails in your direction so you can continue your conversation.

 

     “God, no.” You respond in disgust. Thankfully, you haven’t had to hear from Kankri in a few months. “No. Remember how I almost got fired last week?”

 

      “Yes, the elitist douchebag with the scarf. It was a very vivid..somewhat vulgar retelling.”

 

      “But I didn’t get fired.” You continue, frothing the milk.

 

     “Yes, I’d imagine that’s why you’re here now. Unless you showed up on a Saturday morning to sneak into a building, unauthorized, and work entirely unpaid for a ten hour shift?”

 

     “No, actually, I didn’t do that. I am definitely still employed.” You hand over her chai and go to get the scone, and she trails after you in the other direction. “But Santino put me in charge of training the new guy, I guess so I learn to be more patient.”

 

     “That sounds reasonable enough.”

 

You lower your voice, glancing over in the new guys direction to make sure he’s still preoccupied with his dumb music. Of course he is.

 

     “Yeah, sure, it _sounds_ like it would be a fucking breeze.” You respond. “But Maryam, I swear, it’s only been one day and this is already excruciating.”

 

     “Hm. How so?” She implores, quirking an eyebrow with piqued interest, as you hand over her scone on a delicate little plate. You do a quick scan around the room to see if any other customers are calling on your attention, but it’s all clear. You can’t just do nothing, though, so you wipe down the counter as you talk.

 

     “He’s just been spending the whole day acting like a legendary dumbass. It’s like, his brain is a strainer and the valuable grains of information I have been constantly expelling are destined to filter in through his earholes and fall right back out the other side. It’s a waste of my fucking time. I mean, first of all, it’s like he’s never even heard of coffee in his life. Like, earlier, he tried to tell me that, somewhere amongst his handful of brain cells, he thought he might find the Peppermint Mocha listed as a fucking snack, like, it’s a DRINK, you mythic nimrod!!” You watch your spit spray out of your mouth in all directions as you rave, scrubbing furiously at counter space that is already spotless. “Seriously Maryam, I can’t make this shit up. I had to spoonfeed this crotchblistering idiot a lesson on how to use a goddamn broom. He keeps badgering me every time he needs to know how to make a drink, even though all the recipes are in the fucking recipe book that I have pointed out MULTIPLE times since we got here. He constantly requires me to hold his hand and walk his confused ass to the fridge when he can’t find something we need, even though everything we ever need is always in the exact place you would expect it to be. He’s a fucking nightmare.” You wipe your mouth off on your sleeve, throwing the rag back into the sanitizer bucket.

 

     “Sounds like a difficult one. What’s his name?” She asks.

 

     You throw your hands up in the air. “I don’t even fucking know! Apparently, this asshole, when confronted with basic social concepts like friendly introductions, can only be bothered to brag about how he goes to fucking Cornish and then offer fistbumps like we’re bros now or something, despite the fact that he has failed to provide me with any of the information that one would expect to know if looking to begin a so called ‘broship,’not that, even if he was able to meet those gloriously low standards, I would consider befriending someone like him.”

 

     “Cornish. So he’s an artist.”

 

      “So he’s a douchebag. Are you listening to anything I’m saying?”

 

     “Of course I am, Karkat, as always.” She pauses to take a sip of her chai. “Have you considered, by any chance, that perhaps he is simply pulling your leg?”

 

You pause, your expression crumpling into thought. You hadn’t considered it.

 

      “What makes you say that?”

 

     “Nothing, really. It was just a suggestion. I don’t pretend to comprehend the inner workings of ‘douchebag’ artists, or why anyone would choose to spend their entire workday annoying their coworkers, but if it were his intention to get under your skin, it is certainly working, isn’t it?”

 

     “I guess.” You concede. To think that the new guy has just been messing with you this entire time is almost more infuriating than all of the shit he has been doing combined. Especially since, if that was the case, you absolutely fell for it. But why would he even do that? It makes no sense. You decide to move on for now. “Whatever, it’s not important. How are you, Kanaya? Did you ask that girl out yet?”

 

     You have it on good authority that there is a both ‘wonderfully eloquent’ and ‘very personable’ girl who attends the bi-weekly book club meetings hosted at the public library. You have this on such good authority because Kanaya, who also attends the meetings, has a terrible crush on her and has been gushing about it for months now. So it’s not a surprise that her face turns a bright shade of pink when you bring it up.  

 

     “Well, if my assumption is correct, and you’re referring to Rose, no I have not.” She responds, smiling shyly. “That is not to say I wouldn’t like to, but I am concerned that I do not have enough information to say for certain whether my feelings will be reciprocated. And, if I were to make my ‘move’ at this point, I fear it would only end in rejection, and subsequent embarrassment on my part.”

 

     You groan. This has been her response for a while now. “Kanaya. She made you a scarf.”

 

     “I know. It was so sweet of her.” She grins.

 

     “No, what I’m saying is, she obviously feels the same way. She only sees you twice a month and she knitted you a whole fucking scarf.” You can’t see why she’s not connecting the dots here. The things she’s told you about her conversations with Rose. You can almost feel the tension through the chat screen.

 

     “Karkat, I have misinterpreted friendly gestures as romantic advances in the past. I’m sure you remember my long term infatuation with Vriska Serket?”

 

     Just the name makes your eyes roll all the way to the back of your head. Gross.

 

      “Kanaya, this is nothing like that. Vriska was, and probably still is, a manipulative bitch who was leading you on because she knows how to get what she wants from people by exploiting their vulnerabilities. You weren’t misinterpreting anything, you were being purposely deceived. Rose, on the other hand, has nothing to gain from being so painfully obvious about her attraction to you, except hopefully, if you both get over yourselves and take some fucking initiative, a sickeningly adorable date with you.”

 

      You are constantly baffled by how obtuse people have to be when it comes to their love lives. Why do people like yourself, who have at least a sliver of a clue, always have to be the ones shoveling out a healthy dose of reality to your friends, instead of actually being in relationships? If you were in a situation like Kanaya’s--straight out a goddamn fairy tale--you would jump at the chance to confess and live happily ever after with the person who is clearly your soulmate. You wouldn’t waste any time at all awkwardly stumbling around your love interest and subjecting yourself to the agony that comes with months of mutual pining and self-doubt, like the protagonists in your movies always do. Sadly, nothing like what’s happening to Kanaya will probably ever happen to you. So, tragically single you remain.

 

     She sighs softly, laying her hand gently on yours on the counter.

 

     “Perhaps you’re right. Your interpretation of these matters is often accurate. God, I’m a mess, Karkat. I’ve never been quite so captivated by another woman, and frankly, I don’t know what to do with myself. Do you have any other sage advice?”

 

     “There’s only so much I can say, Kanaya, and I’ve been saying it from the beginning-just be honest with her. It’s not like you don’t have the words. You could fucking copy paste any of our pesterlogs for the past three months, print it out, and read it word for word, and that would more than suffice.” It’s true. She could fill _novels_ with that stuff. “I mean, don’t actually do that. Just. I dunno, pull her aside after your next meeting, tell her that she’s the light of your life and the fire of your loins or whatever, and ask her on a date. Or even, go home tonight and shoot her a message on Pesterchum. Or, I dunno, pull out your phone right now, call her, and tell her that you want to go out with her!”

 

     “Oh, not right now!” She looks horrified as she takes a dainty bite of her scone.

 

     “Okay, not right now. But just _do_ it.”

 

     “You give Shia Labeouf a run for his money.” She quips.

 

     You let out a huff. “Kanaya, don’t try to distract me with outdated memes. This is serious.”

 

     She smirks, finishing the last few bites of scone and passing her dirty dishes back over the counter.

 

     “Okay, okay. I promise I’ll do it soon.”

 

     “Thank God.” You place the dishes in a bin and walk around the counter to give her a hug goodbye.

 

     “Thank you for the chat. I will keep you posted.” She says, wrapping her arms around you tightly. She still gives great hugs.

 

     “It’s good to see you.” Your voice is muffled by her shoulder.

 

     “And you also.”

 

When you pull away, you give her a quick wave and she’s swiftly on her way out the door.

 

     Moments later, the new guy strolls back up toward the register, grabbing his rumpled up apron from where he left it on a little shelf under the counter and throwing it on.

 

     “Hey.”

 

     “Hey.”

 

     “Who was that girl you were just talking to? I feel like I know her from somewhere.” He looks thoughtfully in the direction of the door, as if trying to piece it together.

 

     “None of your business.” You curtly respond, because it is none of his business.

 

     “Oh shit, is she your girlfriend or something? Because I’m not trying to get her digits or anything.” He’s quick to defend himself, putting his hands up. “I just seriously feel like I’ve seen her before, like online somewhere.”

 

     “Possibly.”

 

     “Wait..possibly she’s your girlfriend, or possibly I’ve seen her before?

 

     You roll your eyes, trying to find something to do besides be a part of this increasingly inane conversation. This guy makes you want to knock yourself swiftly upside the head with a blunt object. You look around. The entire workspace is gleaming. Your freshman coworker must have disappeared for her break, since she is nowhere to be seen, which is a shame, since you would honestly rather talk to her.

 

     “She’s not my girlfriend.” You finally supply.

 

     “That’s good. There’s not really the right kind of chemistry between you two for a relationship.”

 

     “Did I ask?”

 

He completely ignores you pointing out how fucking rude that was.

 

     “Does she have a Tumblr maybe? Instagram?”

 

     “No.”

 

     “Does she actually not or are you just saying that so I’ll leave you alone.”

 

     You cross your arms, grinding your teeth together. This is going downhill fast, and he’s clearly not taking the hint. Maybe you should just bite the bullet and be straightforward about it. How bad can ‘please avoid talking to me for the rest of time and eternity’ sound, anyway?

 

     “What a lucky guess! At what point did you begin to suspect that I’m not interested in having a conversation with you about how you maybe, might _possibly_ recognize my friend?”

 

     He pauses. You think you might detect the smallest of smirks playing on the corners of his lips.

 

     “What can I say, I have finely tuned deductive reasoning skills. Nothing gets past me, Karkat.”

 

     “Are you fucking with me, or what?” You blurt out.

 

     “I mean...that’s a little forward.”

 

     You feel your entire face heat up, and you want to stick your head in the blender. This is getting fucking ridiculous. You intentionally keep your voice as low as you possibly can.

 

     “Okay, that is _not_ what I fucking meant, and the fact that any reasonable, mentally stable person would probably recognize that confirms either one of two things. Either you _are,_ in fact, fucking with me, and have been for the entire day. Or there really is someone in the universe who is so profoundly dense that they would _unknowingly_ spend an entire day making someone else’s life a living hell, running amok like an unsupervised toddler with scissors, and that someone is you. And in that case, I cannot understand how you are even here right now, considering no one who is that much of a fuckshitting nincompoop could have possibly survived this long.”

 

     You pause to take a breath, two seconds pass, and suddenly, he just bursts out laughing. What the fuck is wrong with this guy?

 

     “What the fuck is wrong with you? I’m serious!!!” You hiss. “Why are you laughing?”

 

     He’s chuckling in the most unexpectedly warm way for how he looks, and you’re almost distracted from how pissed off you are about this whole situation because of it. But you manage to wrangle the scowl back onto your face before he looks back up at you.

 

     “I mean, dude. I knew you were kind of a rancorous asshole, but I thought you could hold it together a little longer than this. Like, maybe a couple of days.” He laughs.

 

     You blink. You? _You’re_ the asshole?

 

     “What are you talking about?”

 

     “Dude, I was here for my interview last Saturday. I saw that whole thing go down with that guy in the scarf. Shit was hilarious, I almost pissed my pants. It was awesome.” He straightens up a little, pulling himself back together. “Anyway, your boss like went back to talk to you in the middle of the interview, and when he came back, he gave me the job and said he was putting you in charge of me so you could practice your people skills, and that he hoped I would let him know how it went and all. And I was like, shit dog, that sounds like a fucking riot, I gotta mess with this dude now, he’s totally not gonna last. But, wow, I gotta say dude, you just broke some kind of record for ‘fastest to blow his top.’ Like, you lost your cool quicker than a cold glass of lemonade on a hot summer day. Oh where oh where has your cool gone, oh where oh where can it be? Who even fuckin’ knows? Straight up, all your angry vapors have compressed to their saturation limit, and condensation is rapidly occurring. We’re entering the next phase of the water cyc-”

     “Are you about done?” You interrupt.

 

     You can’t take any more of his incessant rambling, which seems to be something the new guy has a penchant for. You heard him going off under his breath earlier today, but at least then you could just walk right past him. You cannot stand here and listen to him spout complete nonsense for ten minutes of your precious life.

 

     “Well, I guess now I am.”

 

     “Good.” You stalk back into the kitchen to wash some dishes, and he follows on your heel like an overly attached puppy. You stop him before he can even get one foot through the door. “There needs to be at least one person up front at all times.”

 

     He gives you a look you can’t quite place, and then shrugs and leaves you be. Thank God. Maybe being alone back here will give you some time to get your frustration out. You grab some of the dirty dishes and start sliding off the remains of food into the trash can, trying your best to avoid getting any of it on your hands. People are disgusting.

 

     You can’t believe you let him fool you for almost the entire day. Just thinking about him laughing to himself when you’re not looking, formulating another plan to get under your skin, makes your blood boil. And you didn’t even figure it out yourself! It took a fucking intervention with Kanaya for the thought to even occur to you not to let him get to you that easily, and you still weren’t convinced then. You’re such an idiot.

 

     Still, that isn’t the most worrying part of this. As you run scalding water over the ceramic plates and cups, you wonder if he’ll really follow through on telling Santino about all of this. You already blew all three of your chances, and your boss graciously allowed you a fourth. What if this is the thing that finally gets you fired? Clearly, there is no shortage of uninteresting, unlikeable undergrads just dying to be hired in this town--just take a look at the people you work with. You’re not indispensable, and frankly, you’re not sure why he’s put up with you this long. And even if you don’t get fired, the idea of Santino knowing just how little self control you have, that you can’t even handle training a new employee for one day, is humiliating.

 

     You rinse and put dishes in the dishwater, take them out and dry them, and stack and put them away until it’s finally time to close at four. When you walk out, the new guy and freshman girl are already cleaning up for the day. Freshman girl is in the middle of wiping down and shining the steel counters, and you can hear the sound of the coffee brewer dispensing cleaner into the coffee pots. The new guy is stacking the chairs onto the tables and sweeping up the creaky wooden floors of the cafe.

     You work in near silence, except for the new guy mumbling along the lyrics (AGAIN with the mumbling) to some sad acoustic 90’s song you hear every day on the playlist, but don’t know the name of, which is weird, since sad acoustic songs are usually your forte. As he sweeps,  the strokes of the broom fall in time with the slow rhythm of the music. You remember earlier when you spent at least a half hour trying to teach him how to sweep properly. What a dirty liar.

 

     You assume freshman girl directed the new guy on what to do while you were still washing dishes, because the majority of your collective responsibilities are already checked off on the little list you keep hanging on a clipboard. You silently thank her for this, inside your head. All that’s left to do now is to finish up cleaning out the coffee pots, restock (napkins, sugar, creamer, stirrers,) and clean out the leftover food from the pastry case.

 

     In the end, you’re out by 4:30 instead of your usual 5:00.

 

     You’re walking down to your bus stop with a paper bag full of leftover muffins from the case when you hear sneakers crunching against the frost on the ground behind you, jogging to catch up.

 

     “Yo, wait up.” He shouts from quite a distance behind you.

 

     “What now?” You ask, because you don’t have to turn around to know who it is. You keep walking.

 

     He finally catches up beside you, heaving difficult breaths. He grabs at his chest, coughing violently.

 

     “You..walk..so..fast--and..you’re..so..short.” He wheezes. “How is that even fucking possible?”

 

     You know people must think you’re a fucking laughingstock when you’ve known a guy for a whopping nine hours and he’s already making short jokes. You get no respect.

 

     “People usually walk faster when there’s something to get away from.”

 

      “Ha. Relatable work jokes--that’s my favorite genre.”

 

     “Not exactly what I meant.” You pick up the pace a little bit. Will this guy not take a hint?

 

     “Hey, are you..mad or something?” His mouth twists up a little as he looks over, and it’s something like concern.

 

     “Me? No, why would I be mad?” You make a point of emphasizing your sarcasm, just to make sure the subtle ways of your hostility aren’t lost on him once again. “It’s not like you spent the entire day winding me up, just to have a little laugh. It’s not like you wasted my time and energy acting like an almighty assbrain every chance you got, just for kicks.  Only to turn it around on me when I finally figure it out, like I’m the weirdo here for being a little irked that I’m suddenly the new guys dancing monkey, clapping my hands and screeching at the top of my lungs while you point and throw popcorn! It’s not like you knowingly exacerbated a problem that, according to you, you’ve already seen the dire consequences of, but apparently that shit was ‘hilarious.’ Despite the fact that my _job_ could be on the line, and you’re the one in charge of reporting accurate information about your wonderful Karkat Training Experience, and you are deliberately sabotaging it because you have no regard for the convenience or comfort of the people around you, at least based on what I’ve seen so far. What you’re doing could fucking tear the fabric of my life apart, seam by seam. That’s how much a guy I just met could fuck me over, and I STILL don’t even know your fucking name!!!” Alright. Deep breaths, deep breaths. “But no, why would I be mad?”

 

     When you look over, flashing what you hope is the most menacing glare you have ever glared, his hand is awkwardly hovering over your shoulder, or more like near it, like he wants to pat you but hasn’t quite decided yet. Not that you would allow his hands to even come close to touching you, if he were to make the move.

 

     His hand retreats instantly, as if he’s just now noticing that it he’d moved it towards you in the first place. He looks away. It’s fucking awkward.

 

     “Okay. Okay, yeah. It sounds like way more of a dick move when you say it out loud.” He quietly agrees.

 

     “Uh huh.” You roll your eyes for what seems like the millionth time today.

 

     You walk in silence for a while, watching your warm breath make clouds of fog in the air. You watch the new guy, with his useless fingerless gloves, rub his hands together. You thank the universe for blessing you with the foresight and non-assholery to wear real gloves. Jesus, it’s cold as balls.

 

     “I wasn’t really planning on telling your boss that you freaked out.” He suddenly breaks the silence, then starts to clam up again, stuttering. “I mean, I’m satisfied with what I’ve got. I don’t need to get you fired, too.”

 

     You watch him bite down on his lip, looking away again, out at the busy downtown street, watching the cars go by. This is barely an apology. Even if it was, he’d be failing miserably. But something about how hard he’s trying makes you want to give in. He’s ruined your whole day, yeah, but he doesn’t seem to have really gotten that part of it until now. Or, at least, what he’s saying makes it sound that way.

 

     “Good to know.” Is what you settle for.

 

     “Hm.” He hums.

 

     You finally reach your bus stop after a little more awkwardly silent walking. It’s starting to get dark outside, and the sky is blurred in the way that winter sunsets always are. Streaks of blue and grey and black melting together until, in the blink of an eye, it’s gone entirely dark. In winter, the sky never melts as gradually, never as romantically as summer sunsets do, but instead, all at once. You think you might like that better.

 

      You snap out of your thoughts, realizing that he’s leaning against the bus stop shelter, arms folded, just kind of looking at you. Or, you think he’s looking at you. With the shades, it’s kind of hard to tell. It’s fucking dark out, why is he still wearing those?

 

     “Alright, bye.” You say, raising an eyebrow.

 

     He quickly straightens up again, pushing those dumb fucking shades back into place. It’s a quirk you’ve been noticing all day and you are not any less bothered by it now than you were earlier.

 

     “Yeah. Right. See you tomorrow I guess.” It all comes out in a jumble, and then, instantaneously, he gives a douche-y little two finger salute and starts back in the direction you came from. A few seconds pass before he turns back around.

 

     “Uh, my name’s Dave, just, since you were wondering.” He mumbles. Fucking mumbles.

 

     And then he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is wondering, the song Dave was sweeping to during closing time was "Why Does It Always Rain On Me" by Travis.


	3. Chapter 3

 

**III**

    Knowing you, you probably brought this upon yourself. You’re willing to blame anything, at this point, for the mysterious way your brother manages to slither back into your life. Even, for example, the conversation you had with Maryam yesterday, where you made the fatal mistake of mentioning him, which seems to be the best explanation for this bullshittery.

 

‘Speak of the devil and he will appear,’ or whatever.

 

The devil being your unbearable older brother, Kankri.

 

    You’re checking your phone on the bus to work when you notice a series of missed calls and one voicemail from his contact. Bewilderingly, which you guess is also the reason you didn’t see it until now, it was left at six in the fucking morning. Seriously, why would someone whose only daily commitment is leading seven pm youth group even be awake at that hour?

 

    The fact that he’s contacted you at all is a little jarring. You haven’t heard from him since a few weeks ago, when he wouldn’t stop messaging you on Thanksgiving. Luckily, you had the sense to block him on pesterchum the second the first wave of red text came flooding in, so you actually haven’t _spoken_ to him in a few months. Unluckily, your past self seems to have overlooked one crucial detail, which is that someone like him is definitely not above taking time out of their day to make a personal phone call.

 

    You decide then and there to just bite the bullet and get it over with. At least this way you won’t be forced into an actual conversation with the planters wart on societies fungused foot you begrudgingly call your sibling. Besides, what if it’s something serious? So, you pop one of your tangled earbuds in and press play.

 

    “Hello Karkat, I hope you are doing well. I’ve made several calls to you at this point, but it seems as if you are indisposed at the moment. While I do advise you to make more of an attempt to keep your cellular device turned on and accessible at all times, so as to prevent any further communication errors from arising, that is not what this call is about. Although, on a side note, I have noticed that you have blocked my handle on pesterchum. Forgive me if I am making a hasty accusation, I certainly would not want to offend you, but from your lack of reply to my numerous attempts at correspondence I can only assume that you have inadvertently added my name to your block list. Please reverse this mistake immediately. I’m sure you can understand the distress one could be put under by the inability to contact their family members, especially around this time of year, and I am certain you would not wish such feelings of dejection onto our father and myself, who both love you very dearly and would like to be able to reach you with ease. So, thank you for your compliance on that matter.”

 

    Add a tally to the “number of eye rolls today” whiteboard. There’s no way you’ll ever be able to keep that thing at zero for a whole 24 hours, especially not if your ass pimple of a brother has anything to say about it. A normal person would get the message, right? You have a horrible feeling that even if you told Kankri to his face that you don’t want to fucking speak to him, he’d still ask you to clarify.

 

    “Speaking of Father and I, allow me to move towards the thesis of this phone call. As I’m sure you are well aware, the Christmas season is upon us, and the two of us are very eager to hear back from you in regards to whether you will be spending Christmas Day at home. It is most polite to respond to an invitation like this one at your earliest convenience, so as to give your hosts ample time to make accomodations for your visit, as I’m sure you will agree. Therefore, I am of high hopes that you will be returning my call soon, both for your answer, but also to check up on you. I am concerned that you are not staying as socially engaged as you should be. While your studies are important, casual social interaction is also incredibly enriching for the human brain. Not to mention, it is important to relax once in a while, and relaxation is one of the many benefits that attending social functions can provide. Perhaps consider tagging along with Mr. Captor to one of those parties you’re always complaining about. You may surprise yourself. I remember how much fun I used to have with all my friends in college, just remember not to ingest any illegal substances, I wouldn’t want for you to make any mistakes that would jeopardize you getting an education, considering how hard you have worked. But I digress. Father and I would just like to assure you that regardless of the lifestyle you have chosen, you are always welcome in the Vantas household. Despite some of our recent disagreements, please do not feel as if you are unwanted at the family dinner. And don’t worry, we certainly would not want you to feel pressured to come to the service with us, although--”

 

   You exhale with relief that the automatic cutoff to Kankri’s tirade finally came. The only good thing about getting a voicemail from him is that there’s a time limit, you can’t imagine how you would have coped with the real time version of that lecture. Actually, you _can_ imagine it, but it involves a lot of tearing out your hair and trying to hang yourself on one of the straps tied to the railings inside this bus.

  


   Sometimes you wonder if he writes a script for himself, in the event he ever gets invited into a real, human conversation. More likely, you think, he just pulls a chain and somewhere inside him a fucking motor starts, incessantly churning out drivel like a wind up doll.

 

    In any case, the last time you saw your family was on your birthday in June, when you stormed out early after your confrontation with your dad about that “lifestyle you’ve chosen” took a rough turn. You’d been fighting Kanaya on finally doing it for fucking months, and, looking back, you seriously hate yourself for letting her convince you it would be okay. It was not okay. And for that reason, you’re not planning on returning Kankri’s call anytime soon.

 

    It’s not her fault though, you know that. She was just trying to help. But, as always, dealing with your family is a little more complicated than just being honest and open-hearted. This isn’t Dr. Phil. There’s actually nothing honest about them at all, and you think it would be a lot easier if they just admitted it already. If you’re only being a good person so some fakey fake deity decides you deserve to go to heaven, you’re not really being a good person at all.

 

So, you cram your phone back in your pocket.

 

    You feel your stomach drop as you look up again. Seems like while you were wading around in the cesspool of your eternal bitterness, the bus passed your fucking stop. Bolting up, you yank down on the cord, grab your shit, and hurry out the doors as the bus slows to a halt like, five blocks from where you were supposed to get off.

 

God, how dumb do you have to be?

 

    So, in a gloriously shitty crescendo to your already shitty morning, you’re speedwalking back towards the cafe, trudging through the grey, slushy remains of the snow from yesterday on the sidewalk, and managing to soak your sneakers in the process.

 

    By the time you get close enough to see the new guy, it’s already ten past seven, which is just fucking perfect, because now you’re both late. When is Santino gonna give him a set of keys?

 

Or, you guess his name is Dave. Dave, right?

 

    He’s not sitting at the cafe table, he’s propped up against the storefront, wearing those giant headphones again, and bobbing his head so his limp-ass yellow hair stupidly swishes back and forth like the heartthrob boy band member he seems to desperately wish he was. But, come on. No real person, besides maybe a fucking magazine model, goes to such lengths to _pose_ like that when they’re just _hanging around._

 

    You have to admit though, despite the almighty absurdity of his whole _thing_ , you do feel a palpable and somewhat embarrassing contrast when you finally reach the door, wheezing breathlessly, and pulling your inhaler out of your backpack to take two long puffs before you speak. God it is picturesque, like the opening scene in a shitty teen movie where the main character is a socially-fucking-handicapped dweeb, for lack of a better word. You like to think you have a more mature lexicon than a nineties cartoon character, but there is simply no other way to describe what you look like right now.

 

You finally manage to bark out, “Why are you just standing out here?”

 

No response. He just keeps his mouth poised into a completely straight line and nods to the music.

 

“Um. Hey, Asshole. Are you gonna say anything?”

 

Nothing. You groan. You do not have the fucking time for more of his bullshit. You reach up, tapping him sharply on the shoulder.

 

    All at once, he yanks his headphones off, harshly knocking your arm aside as his back straightens and he locks into a defensive stance. You’re close enough to hear his breath hitch. Before you know it though, his arms fall back to his side, and his shoulders curl back into a slouch. He doesn’t say anything.

 

You blink.

 

“What were you saying?” He mutters.

 

Sure, completely ignore how fucking weird that just was. Okay.

 

“I just wondered why you’re just fucking standing out here. Cause if you’re trying to freeze yourself to death, believe me, you’re gonna be here a while.”

 

“You speaking from experience?” He asks, raising a playful eyebrow as if he didn’t just almost dropkick you into the sun.

 

He must notice the look on your face, because he cleans his shit up real quick.

“I just don’t have a key.” He continues. “Is that Santa Fe guy or whatever usually not here? ‘Cause if so, this is gonna start getting real uncomfortable.”

 

    You walk over to open the door, fishing your keys out of your pocket with a grumble that you hope is audible, even with whatever garbage he’s listening to blasting in his ear.

 

    “Well, he’s a single dad. Neither of his kids are old enough to be home alone and he can’t always find someone to take care of them when they’re not at school, so sometimes he’s just gone. And when that happens, I’m the one who’s expected to make sure everything’s up to standard around here.” You explain, pushing open the door and hurrying to the back, your wet work shoes squeaking on the tile floor. You’ve got to get a move on if you want to make up for lost time. “I mean, I’m not _technically_ a manager, but at this point, I might as well be. He sort of expects me to get everything done. For instance, opening doors for helpless fucks who don’t know how to dress for the cold.”

 

    He follows you, taking off his useless gloves and his dumb headphones and shoving them in his backpack before hanging it up on one of the pegs near the office. You both grab aprons from the washing machine in back and tie them around your waists.

 

“It’s not exactly that I don’t know how to dress for the cold, it’s more like, I’m just not a huge pissbaby.” He deadpans. You’re not sure if he’s joking.

 

“Yeah well, excuse me. If I’m gonna be stuck lugging around this flesh sack for another exhausting fifty years I might as well not needlessly give myself pneumonia just to look cool.”

 

“Aw, score. You think I look cool?”

 

“I think you look like a hipster jackass who’s gonna have a cold in a week.”

 

He shrugs, grabbing one of the huge trays of bagels and pushing through the swinging doors to the front of house.

 

    In the cafes earlier days, starting this late could’ve been a fucking killer. But your recently slow business has pretty much guaranteed that there are always leftovers from yesterday’s batch, which only removes one more thing from your list of things to do. Sometimes you feel guilty about selling day old bagels, but no one ever complains, so it’s no skin off your neck.

 

    It turns out that the only thing you need to bake is an extra batch of banana bread, and some more of the chocolate muffins. So you slide those in the oven after pouring your pre-made batter into the tin, wash your hands, and walk back out to front of house to check on Dave.

 

He already has the case filled up, and he’s standing at the register, which is actually one of two tablets hooked up to a chip reader and an automated money box, punching in orders at random.

 

    “Oh, hey. Just getting a feel for the system.” He greets, turning towards you. “It turns out all that fucking around yesterday might’ve actually been half serious. I mean, I’ve never used a normal register before, let alone one of these new-fangled doo-hickies, and you think like: ‘what? Dave, dog, a literal preschooler could do this. It’s simple categories and labels, you don’t even have to do any mental math like in the olden days, you just press some buttons and your job is magically done.’ And to that I say, ‘you, good sir, severely overestimate my skills of memorization and matching as compared to a four year old. The tots are far superior. I am a simple dumbass, who probably shouldn’t have been hired in the first place, and I think the boss might’ve just been trollin’ for some peen because honestly there is no other logical explanation.’”

 

    You breathe a sigh of relief when he finally shuts the fuck up. Christ, you can go on for a while, but you like to think the shit you blather on about makes at least a tiny degree of sense. The only things you’ve heard come out of Dave’s mouth since yesterday sound like someone took a heavy hand to the predictive text button and pressed send without bothering to proof read. There are so many ways you want to say ‘please consider duct-taping your stupid mouth shut,’ especially when it comes to saying the word ‘peen’ in a place of business. Or at all.

 

But you settle on: “You’ve never used a cash register?”

 

“Nope.” He replies, popping the ‘p.’

 

“What, you’ve never had a job?”

 

“Ehh.” He shrugs, leaning back on the counter.

 

    You feel your eyebrows raise in shock. You wouldn’t even be in Seattle right now if it weren’t for two years of highschool packed with round-the-clock work schedules. Even before you turned sixteen, you were constantly trying to pick up extra cash, both for college, and to make sure the lights stayed on in your house. You haven’t slept in six years, and this asshole must’ve carted his ass to art school for practically fucking free.

 

“So, this is what, a hobby? Mommy and Daddy pay for you to play with your fucking drum kit and you pick up a job on the weekends just ‘cause?” You’re not trying very hard to conceal your annoyance.

 

He blows out cool air, rustling a few strands of his hair, and looks down at his shoes.

 

    “Not exactly.” He responds, slowly. “I’ve been living with my Aunt and my cousins for like, a while now. She’s like crazy rich and nice and took me under her wing and shit, but I figured it was time to stop being such a mooch and actually take some responsibility for myself. Got a couple of small jobs that flopped, then I ended up at this awesome record store in Lower Queen Anne, but that turned out to be a front for drug trafficking. Now I’m here.”

 

You cough. “Sorry, WHAT?”

 

“You gotta improve your listening skills, man. I’m not repeating the whole thing. I felt like a lazy asshole, I got some random jobs, they didn’t work out, now I’m here.”

 

“Shut up, you insufferable dumbass!” It takes everything you have within you not to scream.  “The record store was a fucking front?”

 

    “Oh, yeah.” He says like it’s nothing. “I’m not sure how I never clued in. There was like, always this shitty grand opening sign out front,  and the whole place was basically covered wall to wall in dusty old records that no one ever touched. We only took cash and we just put it in this shoebox underneath the counter, but I thought that was just cause it was super small-scale and hipster-y in there, y’know?”

 

“Holy shit, how did you finally figure it out?”

 

    “Well, one day I forgot my phone charger and we’d already closed up for the day, but I had a key, so I was like, I’ll just pop back and get it real quick, y’know. And two scary guys are in there with little baggies laid out all over the table, stacks of money, typical sinister kingpin stuff.” He gestures with his hands, clearly invested in the retelling. “One of them I don’t recognize, but the other one is my boss. So I’m like, ‘how’s it hangin fellas,’ and the one I don’t recognize fuckin pulls a gun on me.”

 

“I don’t believe you. You’re fucking lying.” He shakes his head.

 

“Sad to say I’m not. You tend to remember pretty distinctly when you come this close to having your fuckin brains blown out. Anyway, I’m shitting my pants. I’ve shit my pants. It’s a shitsplosion, there’s shit out the wazoo-”

 

“-I got it.”

 

    “So my boss is like, ‘hey, cool it man. That’s Dave, he’s chill.’ And gun guy is like ‘what if he rats’ and my boss, or I guess, he wasn’t technically my boss is like ‘he’s just a kid, man, let him go. You’re not gonna rat, are you Dave?’ and obviously I’m like ‘hmm, I don’t want to fucking _die_ right now, so that’s a no.’ And he called off the proverbial dogs and I grabbed my charger and bolted. So, obviously, I couldn’t come back after that pussy move.”

 

“Right, that’s the reason.” You roll your eyes. “Do you even realize how fucking insane that is?”

 

“Yeah, that’s why I’m telling you. It’s like the craziest thing that’s ever happened to me. Also, a fucking waste. It was a really impressive antique record collection. Like, they probably didn’t even need to sell drugs, it was that good.”

 

“Yeah, I still definitely think you’re bullshitting me, but, if not, I guess that’s a pretty good reason to have never used a register before.”

 

He nods, then inhales deeply. “Dude, that smells awesome, by the way. When am I gonna learn how to do the baking?”

 

“Let’s see how you do with the register first.”

 

* * *

 

 

    The morning progresses without any issues. Dave’s not a bad worker, now that he’s not spending the whole day fucking with you. He’s good at multitasking and doesn’t crack under pressure. Before he was hired, your friend Nepeta used worked here, until she moved back down state to her hometown in Vancouver. Her sister opened up an animal shelter there, and she’d asked her to come back to help run it. It was a no-brainer for someone as cat-crazy as Nepeta, but you miss her. She did have a tendency to shut down in stressful situations, though, which makes Dave’s resiliency refreshing.

 

    Throughout the day you start to notice the way college girls practically melt in his presence. He has this way of talking to customers that you hadn’t noticed in your own conversations. The brief conversations he has while taking orders are peppered with overdone flattery and smirks that you guess could be called ‘debonair,’ if you were brain-dead and dick starved. It makes you sick to your stomach. Practically every girl that’s walked in has fallen for his teen heartthrob schtick, shamelessly giggling at his shitty one-liners and ‘accidentally’ brushing hands as they grab their coffee cup. The putrid stink of college thirst blends with the rich aromas of the cafe in a very unpleasant way. It’s disgusting.

 

    You briefly think to yourself that if Dave had a little of that charm when he was talking to you, maybe he’d actually be handsome. His hair is kind of nice. Emphasis on briefly, because that’s stupid and he’s an idiot who almost fucking kicked it in the name of an iphone charger.

 

    By around 11, he’s got about five hastily scribbled phone numbers on the back of his hands, smudged to all hell to the point of being basically illegible. Guess those girls won’t be getting any calls from the hot barista boy of their dreams. What a shame.

 

“Do you usually get this much attention?” You ask offhandedly when business dies down a bit, rinsing out the blender.

 

    “I dunno. I think something about shitty coffee shops makes people fall madly in love with people they’d otherwise never even consider. That combined with my good looks and overall charm creates a cocktail of lust that the average sorority bitch frankly can’t withstand. It’s overpowering.” He explains, rearranging the case. “And it’s even worse now that I’m _behind_ the counter. You don’t even _know_ how many ladies I’ve picked up just by sitting in a cafe, swathed in psuedo-intellectualism and an artistic atmosphere. Now I’m _working_ , I’ve got my sleeves rolled up and shit. That’s just like, a 3x sexy combo.”

 

“Do you ever call any of them?” You ask curiously.

 

    “Not anymore.” He admits. “You get to learn pretty quickly that it’s all about location. Once you break the coffee shop spell, you’re not so hot anymore. You’re just a super pale guy with cool shades and an abnormal knowledge base about the cinematographic works of Ben Stiller.”

  


“Ben Stiller. Huh. Sounds about right.” Of course this guy likes Ben Stiller.

 

“He’s a goddamn treasure.” He retorts, almost offended.

 

    “I don’t know about _treasure_ , ‘Along Came Polly’ was kinda cliche. Tightly wound businessman allows free-spirited woman back into his boring life, and must choose between safety or risk in the name of love? Come on, that shit’s been done a million times! But, to be fair, it was 2004, and manic pixie dream girls were in their prime. Or, fuck, does Polly even count as a manic pixie dream girl? I gotta rewatch that movie.”

 

“I’m not talking about that mushy shit. We’re talking _classics_ here, dude. ‘Starsky and Hutch.’ ‘Zoolander.’ ‘Night at the Museum 2.’”

 

“I think I saw that last one with my brother when I was like, 11.” You comment. Oh yeah. Your brothers phone call. You still have to take care of that.

 

“Wait wait wait. You mean to tell me, that you’ve never seen ‘Starsky and Hutch?’ OR ‘Zoolander?’” He asks, incredulously. You shake your head. “Karkat, dude, when are you free?”

 

“Oh my god, I’m not gonna watch fucking Ben Stiller movies with you, we just met each other _yesterday_.”

 

“But bro comedies are like one of the top ten ways for two male coworkers to bond. Name a more iconic duo than Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson. That could be us. Making coffee _and_ busting drug crimes in groovy 70’s attire.”

 

“Clearly you don’t need me to bust drug crimes.”

 

“But I need you to pull off the 70’s swag. One guy wearing double denim, that’s just a dork. _Two_ guys wearing double denim is a total power play.”

 

“Of yes, of course Dave, when you put it that way it makes total sense.”

 

    Luckily, you don’t have to participate in the rest of this pointless conversation, because at that moment, your freshman co-worker walks in to begin her shift, which means you can finally take your break.

 

    You put in your own order for a turkey sandwich on one of the tablets, plug in your employee discount and pay, and then grab it to go sit down at your favorite booth in the corner, pulling out your phone.

 

    Throughout the whole situation with your family, the one constant source of advice and comfort has been Kanaya. And though not always the most accurate, she did always make you feel understood. You think that now is a better time than any to come to her. But just as you’re opening pesterchum to shoot her a message, you get a notification from her end.

  


GA: Karkat

GA: Do Forgive The Dramatics, But There Has Been A Recent Update In What I Will Dub “The Rose Situation”

GA: And I Am Quite Eager To Disclose It To Someone.

GA: More Specifically, A Dear And Trusted Friend

GA: Which Is You

GA: Will You Come Over At Your Earliest Convenience

  


    Your jaw drops in shock. You can’t believe it actually happened.

  


CG: DID YOU FINALLY ASK HER OUT?

CG: IS THAT THE UPDATE

CG: I DON’T KNOW IF I’D IMPLY THAT WITH AS MUCH BRAVADO AS YOU JUST DID, LIKE IT’S BREAKING NEWS OR SOMETHING.IT’S MORE LIKE AN INEVITABILITY OF YOUR FRUSTRATINGLY SLOWLY BLOSSOMING RELATIONSHIP, WHICH ANYONE COULD HAVE PREDICTED.

CG: WITH ANY LUCK, IN EIGHT TO TEN BUSINESS WEEKS, YOU’LL ACTUALLY HAVE GONE ON THE DATE

CG: BUT CONGRATULATIONS ON FINALLY GROWING A PAIR I GUESS

GA: Well, That Was Something Of An Anticlimax

GA: I Mean, I Did Not Expect You To Show Nearly As Much Enthusiasm As Someone Who Has Just Successfully And Rather Gracefully Courted A Woman That One Has Admired For Some Time Now

GA: But I Daresay There Is A Tad More Ardor To Be Had For The Situation Than That

GA: For Instance, A Simple ‘Way To Go’ Would Have Been More Than Sufficient

CG: WELL

CG: WAY TO GO THEN

CG: I CAN BE THERE AT LIKE 5:15

GA: Excellent

GA: Perhaps I Am Being A Little Overzealous At The Moment

GA: It Happened Only A Few Minutes Ago, And My Adrenaline Is Still Racing

GA: That May Be An Indication That I Am More Excitable Than Necessary

GA: But It Is My First Feat Of Romance In A While, So I Think I Deserve To Relish It

GA: In Any Case, I Have Much To Tell You

CG: GREAT, I CAN’T WAIT TO HEAR YOU WAX POETIC ABOUT THE CURVE OF HER PHILTRUM FOR THE THOUSANDTH TIME

CG: OR PERHAPS YOU WILL ENTERTAIN ME WITH A DETAILED DESCRIPTION OF THE WAY HER EDWARDIAN INSPIRED BLOUSE ACCENTUATES THE LITHENESS OF HER FIGURE.

GA: I Am Sure This Is Beside Your Point, But Just For Your Edification, Rose Generally Tends Towards Victorian Influences When It Comes To Fashion

GA: The Cosmopolitan Trends Of King Edward’s Reign Are Far Too Lavish For Her Tastes, I’m Afraid

CG: YOU’RE RIGHT, THAT’S ABSOLUTELY BESIDE THE POINT

CG: IN FACT, THAT WAS ALMOST COMPLETELY UNNECESSARY INFORMATION

CG: BUT IT’S REALLY FUCKING CUTE THAT YOU CARE ABOUT HER ENOUGH TO KNOW THAT SO WHATEVER YOU’RE EXCUSED

GA: Aw

GA: I Shall See You In A Few Hours, Then?

CG: YEAH.

  


    You log off, finishing the last bit of your sandwich and shoving your phone back in your pocket. Not much has changed since you started your break, except for a few customers trickling in for the beginning of the lunch rush, which is not so much a ‘rush’ at the cafe as it is a slight upbeat.

 

    Things seem to be going fine behind the counter, anyway. Freshman girl hasn’t caused any more malfunctions and Dave is talking to someone on the phone, hopefully a customer.

 

You get up to throw your trash away and hear a little bit of what he’s saying.

 

    “--in case you haven’t noticed by the way my sofa crease is slowly filling back into its original shape, I have commitments now. I’m bringing home the bacon. And the bacon is hot and sizzling and will probably burn the place down if I don’t take my attention off your lesbian love story and focus on my actual job.” He says into the phone with exasperation, pacing back and forth.

 

    “Now, hold up. What the fuck do you mean ‘listen to my problems’? I’ve never _asked_ you to do that, you just siphon imaginary complexes out of my sweet, unassuming heart of hearts like a freudian succubus or something, slithering out of the woodwork and twisting my words until you’re satisfied with the big gay mess you’ve created. I’ve never _called you_ in the middle of the day to talk about girls.  Can’t this wait until I get home?”

 

    “Okay. Not an actual question. I’m hanging up now, okay? Bye.” He replaces the receiver, bringing a hand to his forehead and looking up, flinching when he notices you.

 

“Uh.” You say.

 

“My cousin.” He clarifies.

 

“Ah.”

 

    There’s an awkward silence for a few seconds, as you stare down at the phone. He breaks it abruptly.

 

“Should I go on my break now?”

 

“Oh, yeah, go ahead.” You head back behind the counter, putting your apron back on as he takes his off.

 

    Watching all that go down makes you glad you don’t live with your family anymore. Most of the time, you get to ignore your brother completely. You think it would really wear you out if you had to deal with his bullshit on a daily basis. Even one phone call is too much to confront, but Dave seems like he has conversations as ridiculous as that every single day.

 

Calling Kankri back can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry it's been so long, but the story continues! just been preoccupied with shows and school and such. hoping that i will be uploading more frequently from now on
> 
> also lol this chapter was supposed to come out in december so i'm rly rly late but its still a winter fic look forward to holiday shenanigans
> 
> thanks for reading! comments are always appreciated!
> 
> (P.S: thanks to AllDavekat for saving my fucking life and linking me to this excellent source https://archiveofourown.org/works/5391818/chapters/12454586 !!!! through the power of neighborliness and the ao3 comments section i conquered the bogey that is pesterlog formatting. my dumbass was still trying to use 'p span.' what a chump. chapter 3 is now in its final form)


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